A/N: A bit of this chapter was lifted directly from the episode Lock Up, since part of this chapter and a part of the next one are supposed to happen during said episode. Also, if you're sensitive you might prefer to not read the past part. It's not really descriptive at all, but what happens is pretty clear and it's not nice.

Jonathan Crane was definitely no athlete; a single look at his skinny frame would be enough for anyone to understand that. Nor he ever fancied to become one; exercise was something he had always despised, even as a boy. It was tiring and humiliating, with the whole class laughing at his clumsy attempts to do what took almost no effort from the others.

He preferred being left alone with his books, and eventually even the teacher had given up on trying to get him interested in any sport: it clearly wasn't his thing. But one thing was undeniable – he could run, and he was fast. Should anyone see him now, while running as far as he could from Arkham, they would have thought he was training for the next Olympic games.

Fear can really do wonders, Crane thought confusedly as he finally stopped in an alley, panting, his heart thundering in his chest. He had to find some place to hide, and quickly: with Batman and Robin roaming in he city, staying outside wasn't safe. Not to mention that the police would be after him in no time as well, he mused as he looked around – but where could he…?

His gaze finally fell on the manhole that led to the sewers. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and hesitated for a few instants – he couldn't say he liked the idea of getting in that filthy place – but he knew all too well he had very little choice. He had to avoid being caught at all costs, and the sewer was probably the safest place to spend the night; he would move to get to his silos in the countryside Gotham the following day or the day after that, he decided.

How ironic that walking in broad daylight would be safer than trying to do so at night, he thought as he climbed down, forbidding himself to even think about the possibility he could be caught and sent back to Arkham. No, it couldn't happen, not as long as Bolton was there! He wouldn't get back there, no matter the cost. They wouldn't get him this time, or at least not alive: whatever hell could be waiting for him after death, he was certain it would be nothing compared with the hell his life would become if he were sent back in Bolton's hands.

Crane absentmindedly rubbed his arms, trying to keep himself a little warmer despite the dampness, struggling to ignore the stench. That inmate uniform he was wearing had to go, of course – it would make it all too easy for him to be spotted if he just walked around with the bright orange uniform on. He would get rid of it as soon as he could find anything else he could wear and-

"Hey, is that ya, scrawny?"

Crane winced – or, better yet, he nearly jumped out of his skin – as a gruff, raspy voice called out from him. He turned abruptly, his heart pounding, then he relaxed a little as he saw the massive figure standing behind him, perfectly recognizable despite the trench coat and hat he was wearing. "Mr. Jones," he greeted him, trying to sound perfectly calm and hoping he hadn't noticed his moment of blind panic. "I hadn't thought I could find you here."

Killer Croc gave a rumbling laugh. "Where'd ya think ya'd find me, scrawny? In Buckingham Palace?" he asked before glancing at the clothes he was wearing. On the run, ain't ya? Hope ya didn't bring the Bat here."

"Yes, I just escaped. And no, no one knows I'm here," Crane replied, fervently hoping he wasn't wrong. "It's been quite a while since last time we heard of you," he added. For a moment he actually found himself wondering what could be happening to the ones still in Arkham in that very same moment, and what in the world could be happening to Tetch, but he was quick to chase away the thought.

"I decided to stay away from the big game for a while," Killer Croc scratched a scaly cheek before he blinked, as if suddenly reminded of something. "And what the heck, none of us outside heard from ya guys in months! First one to escape in a while, aint'ya? Did it get harder to leave that hellhole?"

"You cannot even imagine," Crane muttered, his face twisting in a bitter grimace. "You might want to keep yourself well away from that place as long as you can," he added. He strongly doubted Bolton would get too far with Killer Croc – that devil wasn't so stupid – but he would certainly make sure to make his stay even less pleasant than it would usually be… and he would make sure he never escaped, because no one escaped under Bolton's charge.

No one except the Scarecrow. The thought almost made him smirk.

"Ah," Killer Croc said. "Don't tell me the food got even worse, 'cause it's impossible," he said… and coming from him, that meant a lot. He had never had complicated tastes when it came to food, and most of the other rogues would claim he had no taste at all, but not even he could ever like whatever they made pass off as food.

"No, it's always just as dreadful. We have… a new chief of security."

Killer Croc scoffed. "Is that all? Ya got me worried for a moment. Just another guy I could snap like a chopstick if I just-"

"No, he's not 'just another guy'," Crane snapped. The thought anyone could so easily dismiss the man who could make him shake with terror sounded like an insult to him. But then again, what could someone like Killer Croc know of what it meant being unable to do anything against someone who could control your life, take away anything from you just because he felt like it and dispose of you the way he thought fitting? He just couldn't, and he certainly wasn't going to let anyone know of… of what really happened in there. "His place really is Arkham, yes, but as an inmate. For once in your life, Jones, do something sensible and be careful to not get back in there. The fact I'm the first one to escape in months should be enough of a hint of how bad the situation is."

For a moment Killer Croc seemed about to retort, then he paused with a slightly confused frown as he realized Scarecrow was being deadly serious. Finally, he shrugged. "Whatever, I'll be careful. Thanks for the tip, scrawny," he glanced at his uniform. "Don't have anything else to wear? Ya'll be easy to spot that way."

"I'm afraid I forgot to take a suitcase with me when I ran away from the asylum," Scarecrow said dryly. "And yes, I know. I'll try to find something el- what…!" he protested as something heavy and not exactly fragrant was suddenly thrown on him. He pushed it off his head and realized it was Killer Croc's coat.

"Take this on then. Ya'll look like a kid wearing dad's clothes, but better than nothing," he said, apparently unaware of the cold even though he was only wearing some old trousers. Then again, maybe his scaly, thick skin was enough to protect him from that nuisance.

Crane wrinkled his nose in disgust and for a moment he was about to refuse, then he caught himself and just put the coat on, muttering a quick 'thank you' – he was right, he had to keep the uniform hidden if he wanted to have a chance to pass unnoticed.

Killer Crock snickered as he watched Scarecrow trying to roll up the sleeves to he could use his hands. "Ya look funny, ya know," he said with a snicker.

Look who's talking, Crane thought, but he wisely decided to keep his mouth shut – Killer Croc could snap him like a toothpick if he wanted to, and he wasn't stupid enough to take a such risks… not without his fear toxin, at least. Good thing he still had some tanks of the chemicals he needed to make the fear toxin in the silos: he didn't like the idea of being completely defenceless at all.

"I'm not sure this will make me pass unnoticed," Crane finally grumbled, glancing down to see the coat brushing on the damp ground. He had to look ridiculous, he thought in utter annoyance – and just what fear could he inspire like that?

"Hey, it's all I've got, ya know," Killer Croc snorted, a grin still on his ugly snout. "Where are ya going?"

"I have a hideout out of town. I'll stay there for a while, and then…" Crane found himself unable to think of anything – he certainly wasn't going to get back to crime, not as long as Bolton was the chief of security of the Arkham Asylum. "I'll see."

"Outta Gotham, eh? Which way?"

Crane gave him a suspicious glance. "Why do you ask?"

"Do ya want to be spotted?" Killer Croc replied. "Really, ya ain't going nowhere looking like that, scrawny."

"And how would telling you where I'm heading change that?"

"Hey, sewers have to get somewhere, ya know," Killer Croc snorted. "And some of the tunnels here can get ya outta town."

Crane blinked – it was a possibility he hadn't thought of, but it did make sense. "Are you telling me I could get out of town without having to get to surface?" he asked.

"Yeah, but ya gotta tell me what direction ya gotta take, or I can't tell ya the way."

Scarecrow hesitated. He knew it was by far the most sensible solution, but he still was suspicious of the other man – even though he had some trouble thinking of him as a man. Why should he help him just like that, without asking for anything in return? They had barely even spoken to each other, and he had no reason to help him out. Scarecrow knew he wouldn't do anything like that for any other rogue unless he had to, just like he had let Tetch try to break out with him only because he didn't want him to take revenge by giving the alarms.

Killer Croc gave an impatient snort at the doubtful expression on Crane's face. "I ain't gonna tell anyone, scrawny, so just spit it out. It's not like ya gotta tell me where ya'll go after getting out of town anyway."

Well, it was still less of a risk than walking in broad daylight wearing a coat ten times his size over his inmate uniform, Crane finally thought. "North-east," he finally said.

"That way then," Killer Croc turned to point at some tunnel on their left. "Straight on, ya can't go wrong. A couple of hours and ya'll be walking on daisies."

"Crops most likely," Crane muttered under his breath before he cleared his throat. "In that case, I better get going," he added. It was almost down, and the silos wasn't that close to town. He knew there would be a lot more walking after he was out of the sewers; he wanted to be there by nightfall.

Killer Croc shrugged. "Yeah, sure. If they get ya, ya didn't see me, okay?"

Crane had to repress a shudder at the though of being possibly caught. "No, obviously I won't," he said. "And you didn't see me," he added, glaring at his retreating back.

Killer Croc didn't even turn back – he just made an affirmative gesture with his huge hand. "Seen who?"

Well, Scarecrow thought with a sigh, he could only hope he was telling the truth. Then again, why should he hand him over? He had no reason to, he thought, wrapping the coat a little more tightly around himself before he began walking down the dark tunnel, wondering if he still had his usual costume in the silos. For the briefest moment he considered looking for the Joker to tell him what had Bolton done to Harley so he would carry on his revenge on Bolton on their behalf, but he decided against it: as much as he would have loved to make Bolton pay, the danger of being caught in the attempt was too high. He would just stay hidden for now.

Jervis Tetch knew he had been drugged since the first moment he opened his eyes… or better yet, tried to: each lid seemed to weight a ton, and he eventually just gave up and kept them closed. For a moment he was relieved by the fact he felt no pain in his ankle or anywhere else – he had expect the pain in his undoubtedly broken ankle to be excruciating, and he was relieved that it wasn't there. His foggy mind tried to stir something else, some thought about how he had no reason to be relieved, but he simply couldn't focus enough to remember what else was awaiting for him once he returned to consciousness.

And for some reason, he thought it was better this way.

He gave a small sigh and fell back into blissful sleep, dreaming of the look on joy on his Alice's face once he could convince her to follow her to Wonderland, unaware of the massive figure glaring death at him from the door of the infirmary.

Massive fists clenched and nearly shaking with suppressed anger, Bolton kept his eyes fixed on Tetch as he kept sleeping, only stirring slightly. That… that scum had really thought he could escape from Arkham under his charge, hadn't he? Oh, but he had grossly miscalculated and he would pay for that mistake, and he would pay dearly. Once he was done with him, his broken ankle would be the last of his problems. He'd-

"Is there anything you need, Mr. Bolton?"

Bolton winced before he took control over himself again and forced himself to smile at the nurse sitting at a desk next to Tetch's bed, her presence being the only thing that forced him to hold back from giving him what he deserved right away. "I just wanted to check everything was fine. He's not giving you any trouble, is he?"

The nurse shook her head. "No, not at all. He's hardly a threat right now – he'll keep sleeping until tomorrow at least."

"I see," Bolton gave him another glance, gritting his teeth. "In any case, don't hesitate to call me should there be any trouble," he added before turning to walk back in his office. After all, he thought, trying to calm down, there was no reason to rush: Tetch wasn't going anywhere, and he wouldn't be in infirmary forever. No, Tetch's attempted escape wasn't what really bothered him – it was Crane's successful one that made his blood boil.

Nobody had yet escaped under his charge – nobody, and that miserable runt had dared to break out, to ridicule him by escaping! But he would pay, and he would pay dearly. One he was back in his hands, which would be soon, he would make him regret the day his mother brought him screaming to the world. Everything he had been through while in his hands until that moment would seem like a walk in the part in comparison.

Bolton was snapped from his enraged thoughts by a stinging pain in his hands. He glanced down to see he had balled his fists so tightly that his nails had sunk in the flesh of his palms, breaking the skin and making him bleed. He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down and to recollect his thoughts.

Losing control like that would only work against him, he told himself – he could end up getting too much attention on himself. He had to hold back, to behave as if he wasn't too bothered until he had Crane back in his grasp, and then-

He hesitated for a moment. As much as he wished to make him suffer just as he deserved, he knew he was going to have to be careful. He couldn't kill him, that was a given – nor he had any intention to, since it would only end his hell – but he couldn't hurt him too badly either: nothing more than the usual bruises anyway, or else someone could start asking questions. On the other hand, he thought with a smirk, that wasn't going to be too much of a problem.

There are less visible and more effective ways to break a man after all.

It was starting to get dark when Scarecrow staggered inside the silos he used as an occasional hideout. He leaned against the door as he closed it, his legs shaking for the effort: he had walked from before dawn until now, and he was exhausted. Still he hadn't even stopped once to rest, he hadn't stopped a moment to eat or drink anything: all he wanted was putting as much distance as he could between himself and Bolton. And he had made it – no one knew of that hideout, no one would find him there.

I'm safe, Crane thought, finally getting off the oversized coat Killer Croc had given him and throwing it aside. All his muscles were screaming for mercy, but he still forced himself to walk to the next room to take a heap of clothes – his trademark costume.

He couldn't tell exactly why he felt compelled to wear it – he wasn't going back to crime, not as long as Bolton was in Arkham – but he couldn't stand wearing that uniform anymore, and for some reason the thought of changing in his usual attire felt oddly comforting. He would be once again someone people should be scared of rather then some frightened, pathetic man who couldn't pack a punch to save his life, Crane thought bitterly as he changed in his Scarecrow clothes. And indeed as soon as he put on the mask he felt infinitely better, as he supposed anyone would feel getting back home after a long journey. Jonathan Crane could be weak, but as the Scarecrow he could control something who made the strongest men as weak as kittens – fear.

I'm the master of fear. I control fear, even my own, and nothing scares me. Not even Bolton.

It was a blatant lie that he was trying to feed himself, but he could almost make himself believe it. For a brief moment it made him feel better than he had felt in months, since when Bolton had became the new chief of security, since when Arkham had turned into hell…

"Whoa, and you got all the way here just to put on your mask? You could have asked for a new one back in Arkham," a too-well known voice spoke from behind him, causing Crane's blood to freeze in his veins, all the relief he had felt vanishing and making his knees awfully weak.

Robin.

God, no. Please, please, no…!

He gave a strangled cry and tried to run outside without even turning to look at the boy, his mind a blur – all he knew was that he had to get away, no matter what. He wouldn't be brought back in Bolton's hands! He couldn't! He rushed to the door and opened it to run away, but he let out a yelp as he bumped onto someone's massive frame. He had no time to try to back away before a large hand gripped his wrist in an iron grip. Scarecrow frantically tried to break free, but he was simply no match for Batman.

"NO!" he screamed. "No, let me go! Please, let me go!" he nearly begged, still trying with all his might to break free. "I can't go back there!"

"It's not like you have a choice in the matter," Batman said quietly, still holding his wrist. "Now just come with us, and we won't even need to give you any bruise."

"See? Installing cameras in all hideouts we find out about paid off," Crane faintly heard Robin saying from the other side of the room. "They always come back at some point…"

"No! No, you can't bring me back there! You can't…!" Crane was babbling incoherently now, his eyes darting back and forth in the room, looking for something, anything that could help him escaping… but he could see nothing. The chemicals to make the fear toxin were in another room, and there was simply nothing he could do against Batman without his toxin. Finally, his gaze finally fell on an old, rusty knife on a nearby table, and despair made him act without even thinking.

His free hand reached for the knife; blurred as his mind was, he didn't even know if he was planning to use it on Batman or on himself, for he would die rather than having to get back to Arkham and find out what Bolton had in store for him. Either way, he got no chance to use it: something hit the back of his head, and for a brief moment before everything went dark only one thought filled his mind – he wouldn't have to die to find himself in hell.

He had no idea of how long he had been unconscious, but it hadn't to be much, for when a rough jolt caused him to wake up it was still dark. He blinked a few times before glancing around, and horror caused his throat to tighten as he realized they were dragging up the flight of stairs that led inside Arkham. His whole body immediately began to shake at the realization that now it was really over. Bolton would kill him, and if he didn't he would make him wish he would.

"Hey, looks like he woke up," Robin commented.

Crane whimpered. "Don't bring me back there, please!" he begged before he managed to break free from Batman and Robin's still slackened grip. He turned to them, reaching for the front of Batman's costume. "Look at me, Batman! I'm shaking with fear – me, the Scarecrow! I wasn't even going back to crime this time!" he tried to convince them, but they just grabbed him again and resumed dragging him upstairs. "I just had to get away from…" his voiced failed him for a few instants as he saw something he had hoped with all his blackened soul he wouldn't ever see again – Bolton standing above him, barely more than a shadow against the light coming from the doorframe. "… Him!" he gasped before he let out a whimper, shaking even harder than before as Bolton began approaching.

"I'll take him from here, Batman. Lyle Bolton, chief of security," he introduced himself before turning his gaze on Scarecrow. "Congratulations, professor Crane. You're the first inmate to escape Arkham under my charge," he said, and suddenly reached for him. The Scarecrow let out another whimper, still shaking as he grabbed him from the front of his shirt and lifted him from the ground. "You're also the last," he added in a threatening drawl before turning back to Batman and Robin.

"I won't let you and the people of Gotham City down again, Batman," he said, then he turned to Crane one again and smiled – a sick smile that was more than enough to tell Scarecrow his fate would be far worse than death. His body stopped shaking and suddenly went numb, and he found himself unable to react in any way as Bolton dragged him upstairs and shut the heavy door behind them, the sound echoing almost painfully in Crane's ears.

The echo hadn't even faded as the punch came, so quickly that Crane didn't see it coming – he could only feel it as it hit his stomach, causing him to double over in pain, feeling as if all the air had been blown out of his lungs. He struggled to catch his breath, and he emitted a strangled cry as Bolton ripped the mask off his head and grabbed his hair viciously, forcing him to tilt his head backwards.

"Don't scream. It's better for you if you keep quiet," he snarled, and Crane gritted his teeth to hold back a yelp as his grip on his hair tightened even more. "So, you thought you could just escape, didn't you? You thought you could make me look like a fool and get away with it, uh?"

"Please…" Crane begged, but he was cut off by a violent smack across his face that caused his upper lip to break, flooding his mouth with his own blood. The taste of blood made him panic completely and he squirmed and kicked, desperately trying to get away from Bolton, who just gave a rumbling laughter at his desperate attempts.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, still mildly amused before he began dragging him down the hallway, and it was with growing horror that Crane realized he was dragging him into his office.

No!

He opened his mouth to scream, but he could barely emit a sound before Bolton's grip on his neck tightened and he just lifted him from the ground again, cutting off his air. "I wouldn't even try to scream if I were you," he growled, opening the door of his office and walking inside before slamming the door closed behind them again. "Will you keep quiet, you scum?"

Scarecrow struggled to breathe, his hands reaching to grasp Bolton's in a feeble attempt at getting it off his throat, the lack of oxygen making his whole chest burn.

"Will you?" came Bolton's snarl.

Yes, yes, I will, I swear I will, oh God I will I will please just let me BREATHE!

Gathering all his strength, Crane could barely manage to nod slightly, but it seemed to satisfy Bolton, who finally dropped him. Crane hit the cold floor, but he was so busy gasping for breath that he didn't even feel the stinging pain in his elbow. He did, however, feel the vicious kick in his back that would have made him cry out in agony if only he wasn't so out of breath… and he was almost thankful for that, because he couldn't even imagine Bolton's fury should he disobey his order and really scream.

He tried to get up, but another kick sent him back on the ground, face to the floor. Before he could move again he felt Bolton's weight on him, pinning him down, and he knew what he was about to do. "No!" he half-sobbed, half-pleaded as he tried to get up, but Bolton kept him pinned down with ease with just one hand while his other hand grabbed his worn clothes. "Stop!"

"Plead as much as you wish, Crane – how many of your victims pleaded you to stop?" Bolton sneered, but Crane didn't even hear him: all he heard was the other's man heavy breathing, and then a loud ripping sound a moment before the cold air of the office assaulted his bared skin, causing him to shudder. He made one last, feeble attempt at getting Bolton off himself, but he was so much bigger and stronger, and as Bolton pressed his face back against the floor he couldn't move anymore. All he could do was lie still and wait for the pain that was sure to come – it always was painful, let alone when no lubrication was involved, and he knew Bolton would make sure to hurt him out of spite, as a punishment for trying to escape and oh God why, why had he even tried, why-

And then there was the searing pain, tearing him apart, so much stronger than he had anticipated that he actually screamed against the floor, unable to hold back as Bolton kept going without even acknowledging his reaction. His whole body tensed at the intrusion, making the ordeal even more painful, to the point he was sure that this time it would kill him, that he would die, because there was no way one could experience a such pain and stay alive, no way, he couldn't survive this and now he almost hoped he wouldn't, it was just too much.

Oh God let it end, let it end…!

And for one time's sake his plea was listened and everything went blissfully black.